Paintbrush Path

The world around me is white.
Blank. New. Immaculate.
Except for the soul shaped holes,
Those are black.
Corrupted. Lost.
I walk along the bleached streets,
my head turned to the pavement
and the footprints that litter it.
They are the only hint I have that someone else has been here.
They are my Jackson Pollock proof that there is still hope.
My opaque path rambles on,
and every so often a pair of footprints veers off
and fades to gray in the distance,
until there are no footprints left, save my own.
I will paint this town,
because in a world of black and white,
I choose to be a rainbow.